WELCOME TO THE LEAST PRODUCTIVE FARM ON EARTH
Big feelings.
Zero profits.
One farmer wants to make a killing.
His butcher just wants to talk about it.
EVERYBODY’S ALIVE.THE ARRANGEMENT
Farmer Polski lets Butcher Brain stay in the little barn. In return, Butcher Brain is supposed to butcher the animals. Simple. Profitable. What could possibly go wrong?
Unfortunately, Butcher Brain smokes enough weed to forget what he’s doing. And when he remembers, he gets emotional. Every episode, just as he’s about to do it, he forgets the job—or falls in love with the animal.
The pigs get another day.
Farmer Polski gets another migraine.
PICTURES FROM THE FARM
This is the whole business model collapsing in real time: Farmer Polski counting money, Butcher Brain sobbing over a pig, and a barn that somehow still has not produced a single sale.
Mrs. Polski brings home goats and two tiny loud dogs. Farmer Polski protests. She points out that animals belong on a farm. He loses immediately.
Butcher Brain is given one job and finds several emotional reasons not to do it. Dennis survives again, and the farm accidentally becomes more of a sanctuary.
A broken deck creates one serious financial problem. The goat is supposed to solve it. The goat, naturally, becomes family instead.
ONE FARM. ABSOLUTELY NO ONE IN CHARGE.
“That’s not your friend.
That’s my revenue.”
Owns the farm. Owns the barn. Loves money with an intensity usually reserved for firstborn children. Every rescued pig is a personal financial attack. His wife wants more animals. He objects. She reminds him it’s a farm. He buys the animals.
“Wait. Do you think
he knows it’s Tuesday?”
It’s a nickname. Nobody knows his real name. Lives in the barn, smokes too much weed, and has absolutely the wrong temperament for his chosen profession.
“You wanted a farm.
It’s a fucking farm.”
Smoking hot. Completely persuasive. Sees an animal, wants the animal, gets the animal. Farmer Polski bought the farm; she’s making sure it comes with every possible animal.
“YAP. YAP. YAP.
YAP. YAP. YAP.”
One Chihuahua. One terrier. Two fucking annoying small dogs. They bark at the pigs, terrorize the goats, and have never let Farmer Polski finish a sentence. His wife calls them angels.
It was going so well.
For approximately eleven seconds.
“One pig, Butcher Brain. One. I’ve already spent the money.”
“Right. Yep. Professional mode.”
He gets ready. The pig looks up at him.
A very long pause.
“He looks like a Dennis.”
“Do not name the—”
“Dennis has done nothing wrong.”